Gray
by LightofaThousandSuns
Summary: Gift for a friend. The gray sky haunted him that day, in 1984. And as he pondered on the roof, before the rain came, Rorschach knew that something was coming...something big. The man's inner workings, thoughts...perhaps he still WAS human, after all.


A/N: A gift for a friend, and a way to break in this amazing genre : D Set before the Graphic Novel's storyline, by about a year. Enjoy!

I saw this quote on a website and I felt it fit our masked vigilante perfectly, hah.

The main song that inspired this is quoted at the end. :]

_OoOOOoOoOoOoooOOOOooOooOooOo_

"_Out of damp and gloomy days,_

_ out of solitude,_

_ out of loveless words directed at us,_

_ conclusions grow up in us like fungus:_

_one morning they are there, _

_we know not how, _

_and they gaze upon us, morose and gray. _

_Woe to the thinker who is not the gardener _

_but only the soil of the plants that grow in him."_

_~ Friedrich Nietzsche_

Dawn was arriving…or was it? The orb of fiery light was not in the sky, only grey clouds hovered above the city this June morning, the air sticky upon contact, sweat pooling on the foreheads of the denizens of New York. Summer rain looked imminent; but it had looked like so for the past two weeks, and yet, no reprieve from the slight drought that had settled over the city ever arrived. Until possibly today.

It had to be nearly five in the morning, nonetheless; citizens were just beginning to awaken from their slumber to go about their supposed clean business, when all it was, in truth, just degeneracy, a chaotic mess, a conglomerate of sexual deviation, a prowess where hunters destroyed their innocent prey with whorish looks, degrading slaps, kicks to the street, and living in sheer blissful ignorance. Ignorance, due to the fact that they all lived in a world with a permanently blue sky.

_Lie. That sky does not exist. All living in a dying façade. _

He knew they probably would never change; Walter-er, Rorschach knew that. The red-head knew that as his heels clicked silently on the alley's pavement, his face being pocketed in his trousers' back pocket for now. His hiding spot was nearby, yes, not over a three minutes hurried walk, and yet, his body was crying out for a rest, once again. When was the last time he slept? Two days? Three?

Rorschach did not know any more, he failed to keep track. The man only stopped when the bags under his eyes were extremely prominent, when his body would just collapse under its own weight; thankfully, those times he had been in his own rat-hole of an apartment, and his mattress had been near, and Miss Sharip had keep her trap shut for _once_. But the vigilante did not want to think about what would happen if he just fainted from exhaustion in the middle of the streets of New York.

_Know what would happen. Be taken. Arrested. Destroyed. _

With a sigh, the male shook his head; he supposed he could at least sit for a few minutes, what harm would it do? His face was hidden, that was what mattered. No one knew who Rorschach really was, what was the harm in sitting before he headed home to take a short nap, then go out on his daily rounds, daily rounds of masked observing, of keen watching; there was no harm, yes?

_Getting lazy. Or old. Possibly both? Don't like to think of age. Feel older day by day, city draining away life-mine, and its own. _

But those younger days were filled with a Rorschach to whom the truth was hidden, he reminded himself. At least now, at age thirty-four, he knew the truth. He knew what this city, this world, was. And how each day, he delivered a spoonful of Justice-it was all he could do, he supposed. He was only one man; but one man was better than none.

But where to rest? That was the question now; only an alleyway and a steel, silver building to his right offered solace, the gray puffs of nimbus looming even faster; the red-head with icy eyes hoped it would not start raining until that night, but he doubted Mother Nature could hold out for that long; at least at night, his fedora gave a minuscule amount of protection, whereas Walter's plain garb gave none.

_Will have to do._

The man of course meant the building; at least, from down below, the roof seemed to provide some form of cover, some shelter, and yet offer an open view of the city. The building, according to its exterior, looked abandoned, rust starting to collect like a virus around the edges of the monstrously decrepit piece of steel and casing. Rorschach spotted a barely-hinged ladder on the south side of the building, facing towards the dank alley, and with grunt and nimble steps, he ascended the silent metal creature.

The roof was bare of any sign of civilization, save for a sprinkling of cardboard boxes, random piles of dust and dirt; the surface was flat, dull like a monotone, a traditional miniature skyscraper in the city, with no fence lining the edge, no border at all. One could walk right off the roof and into the Great Beyond if he so wished…

_No one would care. No one does. _

But of course Rorschach was far from suicidal; his mission would constant, never-ending, it would end when he died, and that was far from now.

_Most likely will die violently, know that. Can't change it. Won't change it. _

Why was the ginger pondering death so much today? Was the great gray sky casting shadows over his thoughts?

_Hurm. Doubt it. Death always on mind, just actually prominent today. _

But there had been sinking feelings in Rorschach's body recently; was something coming? Possibly, he would look into it, but…what would he look into? Premonitions did not scream and leave evidence around like scum; they were just feelings, sensations, ideas. Nothing he could actually look for as a concrete item. In all essence, this week, this month, this year-nineteen-eighty-four-had been quiet….well, on a grand scale. Of course it was _never_ silent in New York, the vermin always screaming and gargling on their own excess, their own bile and blood. But there was no giant pushing of war, just tension…

_Perhaps sensing escalation? Will keep ears open. Eyes as well. _

War was not, could not, be a prominent thought at this moment, for Rorschach's energy was waning, and as gracefully as he could (which was hardly), he sat his body down near the edge of the building, in a way where he could stretch out his legs; his position was not extremely close to the edge, yet someone could gaze upon his form if they had the insanity to stare up at random buildings, and look like a fool…which, well, some citizens did, but the vigilante doubted anyone would care _he_ was sitting up here. Here was a man that looked old, scraggly, and unkempt; they would care if he was a liberal politician in a business suit, or a make-up wearing woman and her intricately painted face, with long, blonde curls and breast implants; men and women would wonder, gaze upon their prophets, wondering why they stood upon the metal; were they contemplating life? Where they discovering new ideas, new theories? Or, worse, were they about to jump off the edge? Him? Nah, they would see it as another homeless-looking man losing his mind, probably talking to the voices in his head or maybe he was contemplating suicide, and he would just be another body to sweep away into the engorged gutters.

But, no, Rorschach was not here to die, he was here to rest; suicide was the coward's way out.

Yes, rest…oh how dark the circles under his eyes seemed! The sticky, humid wind blew across the roof slowly, caressing Walter's face, and he welcomed it while wrapping his arms around his legs, his fedora in a gloved hand, a ragged chin covered in a stubble of hair resting on a bloodstained kneed, but Rorschach paid no mind to the dried stain; coming from a brutal beating only hours before, the blood was not his own of course, it was the scum he had managed to not just pulverize, but mutilate the body to a great extent. The left arm twisted behind the child pornography dealer's back, the bone protruding from the skin as the face had been bashed against the filthy dumpster situated in that particular alleyway. The man had never had a chance; Rorschach had been tailing him and his cronies for the past week and a half (_Probable cause for the exhaustion?_), making sure all his tips were correct; those tips forcibly told, of course, but what was one or three or five crushed fingers compared to the priceless finding of one of New York's newest kingpins of child porn? And then, of course, crushing said kingpin's windpipe, and using a pipe to…_maim _his three assistants, the whole fight taking place on the West Side, near the docks. But what did it matter? The police would find the body, yes, and confirm that, yes, Richard Adams of Queens was dead and gone, but there was always, always a successor in that sort of business; or, at least somewhere in the city, another "Richard Adams" would come to the surface, and carry on his own line of pornography of innocent babes and children.

Children…Rorschach would have never come across as it, but children were a double-edged sword to him; both a pain-in-the-neck with their whining and neediness, and yet, so, so innocent and pure at the same time. They were society's only hope of making progress, of making any sort of improvement, and yet, the ravenous adults were molding them into dangerous and gaudy humans to follow in their footsteps, to continue the corruption. But, could someone save the children?

The red-head had a fleeting, wane twitch of the lips occur, as he spotted a short toddler, holding his mother's hand as they walked down the early morning street; the woman herself, to Rorschach's approval, was not dressed explicitly, but demure, as a mother, possibly single, should appear. The mother-child pair rounded the corner, and from his angle, the vigilante could see a grocery up ahead, estimating that that was where the pair was venturing to. He wished that he could help the children more, and tell them that _they_ had no reason to fear him, even if they sometimes got on his nerves with their crying and complaining. In reality, though, did not the majority people get on his nerves? At least when he was disguised as the long-gone Walter they certainly did.

It may have been surprising for Rorschach to admire the possible single mother, considering the man's utter deploring of women, but even he could respect the conservative woman who did go about her life respectfully, kindly. Though, they were never kind to him, and half the time he was saving the weak-willed ones from being raped right there on the street, but even he could give a nod of approval to a woman who did not wear her makeup, hike her dress hem up to her thigh in order to get a john, fornicated constantly, with various men of course, or act helpless, drug-addicted, or whatever else one could name as being part of the numerous vices of the female sex.

_Too bad almost none of those women are left._

For the world, it was too bad, but not for Rorschach. He would never soil his decent soul by interacting with a woman more than it was needed; he had learned early how life was filled with decrepit females, the few good souls of yesteryears having already vanished in wisps of smoke and flying away to the Great Beyond. Besides, all women were a distraction, nothing to get mixed up in when he had a job to do.

And the memories…oh, the haunting memories the whores brought back…There was one now, the red-head spied her from his hidden perch as she walked gaily down street, batting her eyelashes at the passing locals. Heh, just like a whore: only concerned about the next man, not the next meal, the next breath, the next intelligent conversation, or other _useful_ life instances.

Each sighting of them made his mother flash in his mind; a slap of a hand, a kick to the side, her drunken breath, whiskey her choice of poison, ragged red locks in a poof-esque style frizzing and wild in all directions, due mainly from the constant bouts of being on her back in bed. Screaming about an abortion she should have had. Rorschach's mask gave no emotion away, he had hardened himself when it came to his mother; years ago, as a child, it showed too clearly, the tears ran too easily, and his pleadings were, apparently, too quiet and too unneeded.

_Whoreson. All of them, whoresons. _

He would not spare the children of them if he could, no. They were better off dead than to be labeled that, yes? For he knew that label all too well.

The red-head could feel the temperature slowly increasing as he sat upon the roof, pondering the random, sporadic thoughts that wandered into his psyche; fearing heat exhaustion, he slinked into a shadowy area of the rooftop that included the stairs that lead into the building, and with deft fingers, he unbuttoned his trench coat, folding it carefully and setting it aside, placing his fedora on top of it. His gloves came next, the humidity causing his hands to sweat even more, those spotless articles of clothing he placed into a worn and somewhat odorous pocket of the coat.

Sometimes, Rorschach could not believe his own hands were his own; how calloused they were, showing memories from a life left far behind; a tailor whom had dissipated into the dust with Walter's death. How swiftly he had handled the fabrics of his customers, how rough his fingers had become, he turning into a professional at his job in no time, albeit still earning minimum wage. He could still recall how soft the silks and satins felt when rubbing up against his rough hands, how as a young teen he would sometimes wonder what it would be like to actually see a fair maiden in that certain silk gown, negligee, or other female clothing, some calming and demure, others lacy and risqué. Even though Walter's hormones had been fairly under control due to his stoic personality, he could not help but have a lusty idea once every blue moon; though, Rorschach would never admit any dream or fantasy had occurred.

Even in a bigger perspective, though, Rorschach would deny Walter Kovacs' existence completely.

Oh, how he hated how he had to disguise himself in the sunlight each day, when this body was not his. But, that was not to say Walter, even as a dead shell, was not useful. Observations were needed, and spreading the word that the end was nigh was just as important…

Sirens interrupted his musings, two black-and-white cruisers careening down the paved road underneath Rorschach's hideaway. Hmph. The pigs were _actually_ working? Impressive, was it not? Or perhaps what Rorschach was assuming was false, and it was another doughnut run?

No, even Rorschach knew they were "trying", trying being the correct word to state here. Just how much they tried was up to them, and of course, the police chose the easy street. Had they just…given up on the city? Yes, that had to be it. Just given up. Thrown their hands into the air, proclaiming divine intervention would be the only way New York, and the world, if one looked at it in a bigger view, would be saved.

_Failures. Cold-gazing failures. Opposite of me. Will never stop. Won't stop until dead. _

And then…? What after he was dead and gone, his conscience teased. Whom would he pass the torch onto?

_No one. _

Now that was stating the painfully inane obvious; no one else was _like_ him, so how could they _become_ him? Or his second, his "descendent"? If they could not connect with him while he was alive, what hope was there for any of them to carry on his will?

_Is why you're alone. No one understands. No one cares. _

_But you. _

The thunderheads roared a lion's call; rain was coming fast, the red-head could just feel it in the marrow, the icy, frozen-solid marrow, of his bones.

Ice. It was what his heart was partly made of…or was it?

_Could be. Or possibly just black as night; would explain no-mercy policy. But save them in general…so heart must exist. Yes? Unsure. Used to exist, used to bleed like the streets themselves at younger age. But grew up. Grew up early, learned truth. _

_Learned painful truth. _

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Rorschach wondered if things would have ever turned out differently if, say, one person reached out to Walter Kovacs… only one. Would he be home with a wife and child? Would he be a businessman? (He doubted that idea, for Walter, although street smart and fairly intelligent, probably would have never survived in the business world). Would he have even...become the currently-existing Rorschach? Not that wimpy pretender of yesterdays, but the stone-cold man of today.

_Don't know. Don't care. _

The male told himself that he did not care, which, well, was partly, or mostly, true. But Rorschach could not help those times when he dreamed of some different life; of not waking up in Sharip's crappy hellhole, with only a worn, squeaky mattress, dirty dishes, extra signs, and dirt and dust as companions. Of waking up in a decent house instead; it never had to be fancy, he would have hated that. Rorschach would have even settled for a small apartment that was better.

Sometimes…he wished at least one person understood.

He used to believe that Daniel had, oh how wrong he had been about his old friend.

But all of these thoughts he was having, all of them, why, they were selfish thoughts, thoughts filling, fitting and fulfilling in a _gray _world.

This was not a "gray" world, and it was wrong to think of those thoughts when Rorschach knew his purpose, his way-of-life, his _destiny_.

Only the sky was gray, and that was just today…

And wishing was for those with time for frivolity, for pleasure. Rorschach did not need pleasure, he did not need happiness.

_Only need corruption for survival. Everything else has no meaning. _

But…deep down, Rorschach-or was it Walter, being a zombie? - had some actual…nice moments.

The half-starved cat showing affection in a dreary alleyway…

The sweet mother bird and her young flying off, perhaps fleeing the city's darkness…

The innocent stare of a child walking with his mother, Rorschach disguised and having to ignore the mother's call of "Don't stare at that man, Bobby, who knows what kind of germs he's carrying!"…

Those moments, those little moments, the ones that could actually _touch_ him, make him feel _alive_, for once in his miserable life after years of being Rorschach, of being _dead_…

But they never lasted.

It was like they were gentle caresses of the breeze, fleeting just as so…

And Rorschach…or Walter…or whoever he was…No, he was _Rorschach_, no time to doubt that…Nevertheless, he did not wish for them; wishing only destroyed the body and soul with futile hopes.

But they, the others, they could wish.

But they were human.

They were ignorant.

They were blissfully unaware.

They were sin.

They…They were not…

_Him_…

The man with locks of hellfire had not noticed his eyes had drifted shut as he sat there once more near the edge; it was surprising, in all truths. He was so tired, and yet so at ease upon the roof, his mind had started to become silent while he mused and pondered; only the thunder from above had reminded him where he was; blue eyes trailed upward, to glance at the sky, Rorschach letting out a small sigh he himself could barely hear above the talking and the squawking and the roaring of automobiles;despite the early dawn, life was already blossoming to a full-state of wake.

The "hero" once remembered a conversation he had with Dan as his gaze alternated from city to sky; the former Nite Owl had once asked him if he ever considered leaving, finding another residence…maybe another city, state…Rorschach had replied no, that he was settled here. It would be too hard to change. And that he was needed the most here, New York was the epitome of filth and deviancy. But the changing…that would, truthfully, be too hard for Rorschach.

The masked-vigilante remembered Dreiberg's response…

_"Of course change is too hard for you…" Dan had muttered under his breath, the roll of his eyes not lost on his comrade. _

_"Implying something, Daniel?"_

_"Yeah, Rorschach, just…" The man was nervous, and in street clothes; Rorschach had visited him here once more, while Dan himself was retired. But the masked-ink-blot insisted on stopping by every so often, to steal some food, or shampoo, or cologne (Dan noticed these things, he was no fool), and chats usually popped up, albeit awkwardly. What first started out as a topic of the spectacle-adorned one suggesting a new place of residence for his old friend (perhaps a new setting would cause Rorschach to retire, after all, or at least the New York police would be off his tail…but the first option was preferred) had turned into…well, this._

_"Have something to say, Daniel?" _

_"Rorschach, when are you ever going to just…let this go?" He hated it when the other masked man stared at him like so. With no way to see the man's eyes, it was unnerving. At least with Nite Owl's garb, you could somewhat see his face, his eyes, his smile. Here, no face equaled no expression, which equaled no help. _

_"…Will let go when dead."_

_Dan snorted, "Of course."_

_"Rather that than turn into fat and lazy do-nothing person."_

_"Excuse me?!" That had been a blatant attack, and Dreiberg knew it. _

_"Telling truth, Daniel."_

_"Oh, so just because I quit, I am fat and lazy?"_

_"No. Fat and lazy because you quit. No longer help, no longer see dying world and do something. Qualifies as lazy. Fat because of diet, Daniel. And lack of exercise-"_

_"Ehh, okay, okay, I get that part. But you're going to end up in the morgue if you keep this up-"  
_

_"Have stayed out of morgue so far."_

_"Yes, SO far. What happens when you mess up-"_

_"Won't mess up."_

_"Dammit Rorschach!" Dan bellowed, "Do you forget that you're human just like the rest of us?! You could take off the mask and go out and live a normal life. Be free, be happy! Hell, even you and I could get along without the mask, since I never met who you really are-"_

_"Never will meet my 'real' self, Daniel. 'Real' self no longer existent. Died. Years ago."_

_"So you say. But you'll never know if you don't take off the damn thing."_

_Rorschach shrugged, "Do know. Don't know me as well as you claim, Daniel."_

_"…Rorschach, what…what happened to you?" Dan knew his friend had changed, a few years ago he had noticed it; it was then the tension sprouted, and eventually, their separation as a team. _

_"Grew up, Daniel. Had realizations. About time you grew up too. See it is time to go." Rorschach stood from the desk in Daniel's basement, heading towards the old gateway that led out into the night, a large tunnel with tracks for Archie, leading to the sewers. _

_"Well, Rorschach, I believe it is you that needs to have more realizations…" Dreiberg muttered, shaking his head, and trudging up the steps with the door slamming behind him…_

That had been in nineteen-eighty-three, a little over a year ago. Rorschach had not spoken to Nite-_Daniel_ since then. Sometimes the red-head had to remind himself that it was the opposite for Daniel. Nite Owl was dead and gone (or was he?) and only Daniel Dreiberg existed.

_Looks as if Owl is dead. But possibly not. Costume hanging there in basement as sad reminder, last time checked. _

And although the two men had not spoken in over a year, and would not until nineteen-eighty-five, Rorschach had broken in a few times, in need of quick dinners and sugar cubes. The winged-bird-loving male probably knew that Rorschach broke in once and a while, for it was clearly obvious when he did; but Dan was still loyal in the end. No reporting his old comrade into the police or anything like such.

It would be sad, to Rorschach, in nineteen-eighty five, when Dan would choose to be more concerned about Miss Juspeczyk-not _Jupiter_, of course-over the fate of the world, and his former comrade's life.

But of course, Rorschach did not know what was coming. No one did.

No one could tell him war looked imminent, for now, in this year, it did not. There were talks of conflict, but nothing had come to ahead with the Soviets. And Rorschach's mind had been elsewhere, anyway; his fights were small, he was not taking on nations, but in another sense, he was.

_Nation of sin, of pure evil, that is my enemy. _

And no one would have been able to tell him his fate; how in a year he would stand in the rain, in his Walter façade, watching an old somewhat-friend being buried, a United States flag draped over the casket.

But one could tell him that rain was coming now, today, for the thunder pounded again, and cerulean eyes glanced up once more; it was here, but when? When would the clouds open up, forcing him to move?

His body did not want him to move, that was for sure. Rorschach's exhaustion was existing still, and in all frankness, he would have been happy to sleep against the wall where his coat was resting, but that could have led to unneeded issues.

_Need to move soon. Need better, full sleep. Need to leave. Need to work. _

_So many needs. So little time. _

He was not selfish, these needs were physiological. Even the last one about his work. It was a basic need. Required; desired, called for.

Rorschach needed nothing else but crime to destroy, some food to eat, and a bed to sleep upon; his face, gloves and other clothes were required too, as were the…necessary facilities, but other than that? Nothing.

…It was what he kept telling himself every day…

Was it true?

Possibly. More than likely, it was.

But Walter, if he could have just had a voice, would have, probably, said differently.

Rorschach made sure of otherwise, though.

What is dead stays dead. If it happens out there, it can happen inward.

Another drum-like echo above, another roar of the lion, and with each sound, the ants on the ground scurried faster, some not smart enough to have brought umbrellas.

But no moisture yet; he still had time.

And everything was not ending..._yet_.

They were just inching closer and closer, day by day.

Subconsciously, the male tightened the hold of his arms, still wrapped around his knees; he was not scared, no. But somehow, for some reason, his body wanted to just…hold itself in a more firm grip. Most likely, because his body could only trust itself. No other touch would suffice but his own; no hand could touch his face but his own.

With the starting of more citizens awakening from slumber and heading off to work, the streets went from a dull-ish murmur to a riotous roar; even the Gunga Diner's elephant blimp was already levitating the air; how a small, little diner could have afforded such a bright and kitschy decoration, Rorschach did not know, and he rolled his eyes with a snort at such a thing.

_Decent burgers, at least. When money is somehow acquired. _

"Somehow acquired" meant more along the lines of "being given to you by strangers in the form of change when you decide to rest along a step or two".

_Pity money. Don't truly care, just want to feel good. Like they did something. _

The muggy breeze picked up again, papers resting on the roof fluttering about, one landing near the ginger. Immediately seeing the headline, Rorschach growled.

**ADRIAN VEIDT: NEW CHARITY FOUNDED!**

Why that little…His temper was seething as red as his hair, his heart turning as frozen as his eyes, and Rorschach could have sworn his nostrils had just flared. If anything around this city was gaudy, kitschy, a bright and unneeded decoration, it was Adrian Veidt.

_Why that little pompous possibly homosexual liberal…_

The vigilante cut himself off there, trying to keep his anger in check; he disliked that man intensely. Smartest man in the world, perhaps, but he had sold his identity, his life as Ozymandias, for cash. And Rorschach did not know what he hated more, the liberal part, or the homosexual possibility.

But the paper blew off the roof at the next gust and the short male sighed; there was no use trying to do anything about Veidt; the man was his antithesis, there was no connection between them. And while Adrian was loved and adored, and while his Veidt Tower glimmered in dawn's rays even now…

Rorschach was hated. Despised. And he had nothing to show that he had any worth.

_Does not matter…_

…_Will die knowing something worthy was created out of existence…out of being compelled to take up this task, to shoulder the world on shoulders…_

Again, there he was, pondering death…And as a somber expression took over his face, Rorschach could not help but feel a chill run down his spine…

Chill? In the dead heat of summer? Impossible, right…?

…But it was not impossible…It was ominous…

And as no one could tell him about the funeral in the next year, no one would be able to tell him how it was a murder…how a supposed ally was capitalizing on death, how said ally would kill millions of people worldwide in a international joke…And how the blonde ex-comrade would build up the world again with his own money and become a hero.

And no one could tell Rorschach how the United States' ultimate weapon would leave for Mars, in a fit of rage and despair, his one link to the world walking out on him, and into the arms of the red-head's former partner. No one could tell Rorschach how the blue man would build a world on Mars, and how in the end, he would live there for a time, before going off into another universe to create life, new life, life that would survive and be prosperous.

…And no one could tell Rorschach his future…

No one could whisper to him how he was to hunt for a "mask-killer", only to have the true culprit be under his nose the entire time…No one could say to him the facts of how he was to be captured, locked in jail for some days, where he would ponder different items, facts, lives, and links even further, and clash with a fat-talking intellectual of a therapist…No one could tell him how he would cause a riot to occur at that very same jail…

…And…no one could take him by the arm and gently tell him how he would die by a blue-God-like man's hand…turning to ash upon the Antarctic ice and snow…

How he would die for his cause…How he would die because the world that was necessary for his survival was no more…

And how no one would miss him…

Yes, no one would be able to tell Rorschach the future; perhaps that was for the best, though.

For no one was able to tell the future; Jon could see it, but it was not as if he could go around spreading the news as to what it was. And in all truth, though Jon had not told anyone yet, tachyons were building up…his view of various futures were becoming blurred, so even he did not know his actions completely…And he certainly did not know they would become fully hidden by the year nineteen-eighty-five. And Dr. Manhattan would far from tell Laurie; the poor girl would worry her head off.

No, Rorschach knew none of this; but somehow, he could feel imminent changes in his cold bones and heart; something was coming, he could just tell. Something large.

_Death coming. Just know it. Won't be missed, but already know that. _

The last statement was a random thought, and he did not know its origin, but it was true; and so even though no one could tell him that fact, there was no need to tell him. For Rorschach already knew no one would miss him after his death, and that no one would care.

_May not be own death, though. Could be someone else's. But…sense some form of death. Feel it in the air. Nevertheless, statement about own death and life true. _

The future was coming…just like how the gray clouds were closing in on a black-and-white world.

And with a final roar, the clouds opened up, a tiny drop of rain skydived down, hitting the red-head on the nose, who grunted.

_Time to go. _

Yes…time to go…time to stop pondering on the roof about death, about Dan, about the simple women, about their children, about…the world…the dying world in which he was trying to save…the dying world that never thanked him, never cared about him…

He stood slowly, his body still aching from the long days and even longer nights; tired hands grabbed the trench coat, hat, mask, and gloves, holding them close. The male could not put them on, it would most likely be too obvious, or at least too conspicuous; the same could be applied to even just carrying the items. The other pedestrians would stare, and if unlucky, question him. So with gallant steps down the ladder that had led him to the roof, Rorschach descended to the ground, and he placed the apparel in another dumpster that was situated right next to the building.

It was not his normal hiding spot, but it would have to do.

The rain was coming down faster and faster, his white shirt becoming soaked with extreme speed, his purple suit taking in water as well, while rust-hued hair fell down damply; indeed, his apartment was not far, he would be able to make the trek home. But the man stopped himself as he leaned against the building, gazing upon the gray sky.

…Gray…he hated how the sky would imitate such a color; it brought bad thoughts to him. Horrible doubts of what he was doing, despite insisting to himself that it was one or the other. Black. Or white.

No…it _was_ black or white. Gray was just a fallacy, it was just there. It lit up the sky during the days when water would flow; it meant nothing to him otherwise.

_Time to go. Now GO._

And he did go.

The rain pelted his skin, but he did.

The citizens looked upon him as if he was mentally unstable, no surprise there, due to his looks, his condition of walking around slowly without an umbrella.

He would return their stares, and wonder if it was truly worth it to be blissfully happy, yet so unaware of the world; then he would shake his head, and wonder why he would even ponder such an idea.

Little did he know that he pondered because he was still human, deep-down.

And though the cars would nearly splash water upon him as the rain fall turned into a storm, he would keep going.

And even when a young girl would frown at his condition, actually seeming to _care_ (Blaire Roche incarnate?), he would keep going, not bothering with a hello or a grunt of acknowledgment. He would save her just by being around, he believed…

…It was too bad no one could tell him that girl was to die three days later, when her mother would sell her away for heroin, and she would end up in an east-side brothel.

He would keep going, like he always did. No distractions, no stopping.

He would keep going up until the end; he would do it.

Do it up until the end.

And as a flash of lightning lit the sky, the rain now fully soaking his body, somber, cold eyes gazed up at the Heavens; and for a split second, Rorschach took a breath, wondering what God was thinking; it was not his fault the world was hellish, and had fallen by the wayside; God had not made it this way, and Rorschach would say the same thing in a year, while sitting in an interrogation room with Dr. Malcolm Long.

God was probably pondering much of what Rorschach had been …

Rain would come again and again, and with it, the color gray.

But Rorschach would forever say he did not believe in gray…

Even though he would sometimes believe that he was fighting a losing battle…in an unbeknownst-to-him gray world…

No matter…He would never stop. The future was awaiting, it was indeed time to go.

And he planted that statement firmly in his mind as he slammed his apartment door closed, finally out of the rain.

…Finally out of the gray sky…

_OooOOOOoooOooooooooooooooo_

_I can smell the rain coming_

_But I won't leave until it falls_

_I'm gonna soak in its downpour_

_Til I hear my mother's calls_

…_Weighted sorrow in perfect clouds_

_Bursting in the air_

_Wash away and drown…_

_The roof slips beneath my feet_

_As the branches back away from me_

_The softest grass turns to concrete_

_But I will fly_

_I will fly_

_You will see_

_Cause I am playing God_

_I am raising hell_

_As far as I can tell_

_I am all alone_

_Alone in this world_

_Alone_

_Melissa Mcclelland - "Rooftop"_

_OOOOOoooooooOOoOoooOoooOOOoOO  
_

**END**


End file.
